09 January 2017

Last night while we were having dinner at home, a song came on the radio. It was a French song, one I heard before but never paid attention to the words. French Husband between mouthfuls of potatoes and brussels sprouts, says, "Oh you know this song? When it came out I was probably six, seven or eight years old, as a little kid and I loved it," a smile familiar to childhood came across his face, "You know, probably because of this song I met you." I stopped chewing my avocado salad with orange peel, and tried to catch the words of the happy tune going by, "What? Why?"

The song is about a young man who wants to leave everything, "throw away the keys" because since he was born, America calls him:

22 December 2016

1988 "Buche de Noel is my favorite cake!" Bright eyed and hopeful was the response eagerly given by my French Husband, the newlywed. The flavor was a known fact: Spread chocolate on anything and it was labeled: Yann's.

My mother had made jelly-roll cakes for my brothers and me when we were younger, was that the same thing as Buche de Noel?

18 years ago, before Internet and expatriate membership was a given at every corner in France, anything English was like having a 20/20 in Lycee. Peter Mayle was probably writing, "A Year in Provence," while I was struggling in Paris with only three words of French in my pocket of vocabulary. How was I going to find the recipe? Calling my Mom in California was out of the question given the nine hour time difference and expense.

To make a French Christmas cake, a Buche de Noel, for my husband's 24th birthday in September that was going to be a challenge equal to anything Napoleon had to do! Napoleon is believed to have said, "That the man who never makes mistakes never makes a war." Couldn't Yann have said brownies. With Napoleon in my mind I decided chocolate anything even batter would be a hit.

Down to the metro, direction Rue de Rivoli, destination: Brentano's, the bookshop in Paris (since 1895) with a large English section. Certainly they would have a cookbook in English.

On entering Brentano's there stood an American man the size of a fortress. Soft drink in hand, he was carrying on like his world was coming to an end, demanding the sales-girl, "...Don't you understand, E-N-G-L-I-S-H! I want a map of Paris IN English! A map that says, "Big White Church on top of the Hill," none of this rue crap, you understand? Why, tell me why, can't you folks just print a map that says street instead of rue?!" The petite sales-girl looked bewildered as she tried to explain. I left the bookshop, to embarrassed to request a French cookbook in English.

Up above the markets of Les Halles, battling in our kitchen the size of a nutshell, mustering up memories of my Mother making jelly-roll cakes, gathering allies in chocolate, sugar, eggs and flour I conquered my Waterloo! We had French Husband's favorite birthday cake that evening.

Instead of jam I used Chestnut cream (very easy to find in France, so if you want some I can send it too you.) After spreading it on evenly and thick I added shaved chocolate about a cup's worth.

Have ready a thin cotton dishtowel, that is larger than the cake, cover it with powder sugar. When you take the cake out of the oven, turn the cake pan upside down directly on to the sugar powered dish towel. Then sprinkle generously powder sugar all over the cake and roll it us instantly. Also have your warm ganache ready, after a minute or two *unroll the cake and lather the ganache all over it, roll it up, gooey and all, and toothpick it if you must, and put it in the fridge for an hour two or three...

When chilled then add the exterior frosting.

*Unroll the cake with care, but if it should crack do not worry too much, the ganache will cover the mishap. Put the rolled cake in the fridge, adding a toothpick or two to keep it rolled (put the rolled end on the bottom of the plate.)

For the frosting I made a ganache, then with a fork drew in tree trunk designs.

___

I no longer make this for Yann's birthday, but for Christmas instead. What dessert do you serve for Christmas?

07 October 2016

French provencal pottery, you see the piece with the green spot do you know why it is there?

When people come over to our home I am afraid if they ask me a question about anything in our house I will carry on for the next twenty hours or so, non stop. Passionate- yes, brocante fever from the bite- yes, love to share the history- yes, like to talk? I think yes.

What are antique French quilts called?

My friend Valerie brought a group of sixteen American women over to my home for a personal brocante that Ruth and I set up. So added to the mix that the construction of the house next door was wrapping up, renters were coming in, that our house was a dust bowl mess from two months of planning, collecting and me operating a gravy train as I cooked for Rene and his brother in law, setting up a brocante just added to the fun of a whirlwind summer.

What are these made of? And where do they come from?

Did you know it is a thing to make rings out of mother of pearl buttons?

Remember these?

This is the last box.

And these guys?

What were they used for?

Sold out in a blink of an eye.

Red letter monograms from the turn of the century.

There is a purpose and looking cute is not it.

Most people look and want to buy their initials. Though I prefer to make up words with the initials:

B.G. = Beautiful Gift

M.S. = Magical Surprise

C.P. = Creative Purpose

Stack of books that I have never un-tied.

To keep it intimate Ruth and I put out our brocante wares all over the house and garden.

Yann got into the fun of it, pouring Mimosas and chatting up the ladies.

Thank you Valerie, and thank you ladies for coming over, we enjoyed every minute.

That night our first guests to the house next door (gotta find a name for it) came over.

Rebecca and her husband John. Rebecca's sister is married to my cousin Brad.

Small world of cousins connects me to nearly the entire world.

John is a cook, so he invited us to dinner. Dinner in our newest guest house.

The photos are dark because it was late and that is how I roll. Such a lovely evening: Thanksgiving in October, without a turkey, that is how it felt.

Rebecca was bite by the brocante bug... yes she was. Plus she said she wanted to hide in the massive bathtub and never leave. I would have been fine with that!

05 October 2016

A longtime blog reader, and "feel like I know you friend" Peggy came to our part of the world for a month long visit with her husband Bob. They settled into our town on the boarder of two great regions, and dove deep into the slow lifestyle travel. Everyday they went to an off the beaten trail to a local market, where English was not heard and because of that the reality that this is France, and not catering to the tourist but to the locals who live here. They gathered their daily meal, plus baguette and wine from the local vendors, then had lunch in the walled garden where they were staying. Each afternoon they would head out on one of the many local trails into the Saint Baume forest. We live at the base of Saint Baume where tourist barely thread:

where they walked miles in the forest that Napoleon came to claim for his war machine and ended up declaring it holy and left it intact.

This summer we have at least fifty or so guests, some have stayed with us, some have stayed in the tiny house and recently in the house next door. Each guest/friend has left our little non touristic town declaring it holy and leaving it as it is...

"The British author, Peter Mayle describes me best; I am not a scholar. Rather, a dreamer, one who crowds a collage of perfectionistic photos and places them (complete with fragrance and aroma) percolating and illustrated 'on location' in my fixated fantasy land; recently, Provence.

MP and I dove into the deep end; during September we settled in a small out-of-the-way village, Saint-Zacharie, nestled in the hills of Provence-Alps-Cote d’Azur at the foot of Saint Baume Massif.

Rooted in remote mind-boggling history, the sweet hamlet is located on the edge of the Huveaune River, flowing with life-giving water and mythical fairy lore. (Although, the river was dry this year for the first time in twelve).

Off the beaten track, without a monument, museum, or lavish fête in sight, its proximity to the sea, countryside, and terraced medieval towns makes a seamless dot from which to ‘slow travel’.

Without an agenda, we settled into a ‘guardian house’ attached to a massive 300-year-old home situated in a walled garden where notable trees, trailing vines, and hiding bushes--according to Arnaud who spent boyhood holidays in the garden-- speak to each other and applaud the towering Au Grand Cedre, who claps his hands and in a deep voice dominates over them all, I imagine.

We slept well and took time to listen to cooing doves, French schoolchildren on the boulevard below, and the bells of St. Zac chiming on the hour ( if you forget to count, a re-chime occurs a moment later); a pure melodic heartbeat signaling a call to set aside unspoiled mealtime, worship, celebrate and to mourn.

A zillion trails in fragrant forests, some steep strewn with rocks and steps, others with wide open red soil, earth and sheer cliffs leading us to Calanques de Cassis, carried us over 90 miles in 25 days.

Slow days, simple pleasures of the daily baguette and a bright, juicy melon, fresh green markets, touring bigger cities, cathedrals, synagogues, rows of Brocante wonders, even an endless cheese trolley, allowed us to be present in the moment.

Our senses were seduced, our bellies indulged, and we were cared for with only a few words of French in our quiver. Unassuming ambassadors, guests of another culture to respect, we knew if we were polite, kind, unhurried, able to laugh at ourselves, puff appropriately, shrug and hold an open palm of coins when the math eluded us, spontaneous bouts of infectious laughter ensued--buying mosquito repellant in the pharmacy comes to mind.

Therefore, short of a novel, I posted an abridged summation of our treks, food foibles and triumphs on Facebook during #septinfrance with photos and comments. Many of you tagged along which presented a super highway moving picture postcard of inspiration.

When we left St. Zac for Paris (another thunderous bolt for the oozing senses) at the end of the trip, I wrote this of our 20 days,

Our last day in St. Zac meant pack... we lingered a little longer when our neighbors invited us to share a lunch of purplish green artichokes (with the biggest hearts), sliced beets, cheeses, and sourdough baguette below the grand cedar in the garden. Being o'so polite, I took a few pictures of our new friends. I dragged my bag, feet, and heart to the gate, looked up to lime green pomegranates and yet to flower wisteria vines; equally green. A source close to the garden said, "Stay until we bloom."

08 September 2016

The first rule: You are not allowed to care anything heavy, especially your suitcase, up the stairs.

The second rule: Which I do not agree to but have to uphold for his sake, is that you are not allowed to do the dishes. No washing or drying, or putting away...

And to think when we were first married French Husband did not want me to wash clothes, or do the dishes and I fought him, until he gave in...one of the stupidest mistakes ever on my part. I still slap my forehand with the palm of my hand, "What was I thinking."

Anyway if you come over those two rules are two you must know and heed to.

Though 98% percent of the time I am the one doing the dishes, and I LOVE help. But when you are a couple there are some ding dong rules you gotta follow to keep your other half happy... in other words, "Pick you battles." Dishes and carrying heavy stuff, is a war zone I would rather not enter.

Christine, a friend I met through blogging and who lives next to my hometown in the States came to visit with her husband Preston for a few days. Christine has been to our home before so she knows French Husband's rules, and even chuckled as I repeated them to her husband

Before Christine left she gave Yann some gifts:

Some dish towels that read: Yann's dishtowel

I thought that was very clever. Also she gave him a dishwasher's apron and in the pockets with sponges and scrub brushes, tools of the dishwasher's trade.

The dishwasher's apron has three pockets in front.

In the middle pocket Christine had added sponges

the type that are compacted and enlarge when water is added.

And a scrub brush that Yann pretended to use as a barber's scrub brush.

This is a photo of French Husband asking Christine if the pop up sponge in the middle pocket signified anything. Then he started to imitate the sponge popping up, hum... you know where... in the middle pocket and over exaggerating the pop up of that sponge.

Enlarged.

Christine knows French Husband's humor and yet even she was caught off guard.

As French Husband reads the label,

"Just add water and POOF the sponge expands."

He was on a roll with teasing over his gifts.

Thank you Christine for the practical funny gifts and for your enchanting friendship.

16 June 2016

I kind of bought an enormous hand made very old copper tub. It doesn't seem enormous in this photo... But believe me, you are going to freak out when you see the pool aks tub that I bought for the bathroom we are renovating.

You might want to take several deep breaths when you come home. You might want to have a stiff drink. You might want to remember how creative I am and how much you love that about me.

Gulp.

By the way we need to build stairs to get inside the tub. The lowest point is higher than my belly button.

05 June 2016

01 June 2016

The raincoat and hat, especially the hat, well actually only the hat, the hat that made me laugh, and that would embarrass Chelsea and Sacha whenever their father wore it. The raincoat that French Husband bought when he was in his twenties, and the hat he had since he was fifteen. You see French Husband's clothes are vintage, because he rarely buys clothes you know. I wish he did, but he doesn't. I like old things, but there is a limit... I think.

The raincoat and hat were iconic, such a part of French Husband's lifestyle. The other day when French Husband was coming home by train from Paris someone stole his raincoat and hat from his backpack.

Sad.

Why the raincoat and hat?

Weird.

As funny as that hat was, as much as we detested when he wore it, as often as I begged him to carry an umbrella instead... I miss it and so does he.

29 February 2016

If I knew twenty six years ago that my babies would grow up in what felt like five years, move away and live happy independent lives, I think I would have changed a few things. Chelsea and Sacha often say, "Well Mom it is your own fault, you raised us to be independent... you should have raised us to be dependent on you."

Game Changer Number One:

Tie the apron string around the child, forego a bow, instead add a double knot.

Double knot.

Chelsea came home for the weekend. I hadn't seen her since Christmas. How can that be? As we walked along the sea, the waves rolled in and out, the seagulls sung, the twirl and shape of the clouds gave away to the wind, as the sun faded in the horizon.

Very little remains the same. Then as it is with life things, a Stevie Nick's song came on in my head:

"...Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?Can the child within my heart rise above?Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?Can I handle the seasons of my life?..."

"...But time makes you bolderEven children get older and I'm getting older too..."

How can I complain? How can I? I shouldn't, I'm not, call it melancholy... a sober thoughtfulness.

Having Chelsea home, on a beautiful winter day... if only Sacha were here too.

Whenever we went out for the day, when the children were little people, and had fun, more than your average day of fun, I would ask Sacha and Chelsea, "How did you like your day?"

It never failed that Sacha would throw himself on the ground and cry, and I mean cry.

"I didn't have fun at all. Not at all! It was a terrible day! It wasn't long enough" Then he would roll around on the ground sobbing.

In the beginning, I use to feel angry, I use to think to myself, "What a brat!" I would pick him up off the ground, give him a hug while look him in the eye, "Sacha? Honestly? A terrible day? After all the fun things we did, after the treats, and being altogether you honestly can say it was a terrible day?"

And he would nod, "Terrible!" with big sloppy tears.

I would stare in amazement while controlling my frustration, then put my hands in the air and look to French Husband for an answer. We would shrug and shake our heads while he cried.

After several episodes of his faithful reaction to a good day, it dawn on me what he meant....

The day was over. He was sad. And he was responding to the fact that the day had come to an end.

23 February 2016

When I was expecting our first child I automatically started thinking of names, who doesn't? The list was short but defined. I knew the names I liked, and assumed my French Husband would not object. I was about six weeks pregnant when I mentioned some of the ones I liked. (See the names he liked here: my list of names...)...

"You know Yann, I like the name Ella for a girl..." but before I could end my sentence I noticed a horrific look spreading across French Husband's face. I looked around the room thinking something awful must be happening somewhere, somehow to provoke such a response.

"What? What's wrong?" I questioned while looking around the room.

"Ella? Elle a! You do know what 'Elle a' means don't you? You know, 'She has' in French? You do know that? How can we name our baby, 'She-Has'? Can you imagine what it would be like to be named: "She Has"?"

"Ella Fitzgerald," is what I offered, thinking it would trigger an AH HA response, but no. So I asked, "She has what? What do you mean she has?"

Well to say the least Ella was tossed aside. France scored another "BOO" point in my book of Boo Points for France.

Confused, but not bothered, I went on with my list of names... and I suppose somewhere in my childhood I must have learned French and confused it with first names. Because every name I mentioned was a French word.

"Rue?" I offered.

"Rue! Rue is a street." He replied, "You are making a joke, no?"

"No not really. I mean not a joke, but a name. Oh yeah, I see, but still?" I contemplated for less than a second, "It makes for a good name though? Think about it: Rue? How about: Beau?" I added hopefully, only to see my French Husband close his eyes... "Beautiful?" he said.

"Oh, you like it!?" I was thrilled. But thrilled lasted two seconds.

"No. Beau means beautiful." he shook his head as if I had said poop or something disgusting like that.

01 February 2016

During dinner wine is served, but not enough to slur one's conversation. French Husband was telling a tale to Alice about something or other, when I heard him say, "... because of this, certainly Corey and I will be going to "de - oven"."

Now I had caught enough of the conversation to know that he meant to say "we will be going to heaven", meaning we were good enough people. But Alice who is just starting to understand the play of words that French Husband uses with regularity, thought he meant we weren't good enough and would be burning in hell, hence "de - oven".

Now some of you who have just started to read my blog, or who have been reading my blog since time begin, will think I am being an "oven-ish" type of girl to be shining a light on French Husband's mispronounced English words. Well that might be true, but I figure since he does not want me to speak French to him (for reasons beyond my acceptance) I give myself full right to enjoy the occasional tease.

Bob lights for lightbulbs,

Thread-mill for treadmill,

Sleepers for slippers,

...and then there is Alice's Australian accent that confuses the Jesus out of him...

Way back in July Alice asked, "What is the mountain called?" And French Husband replied, "That mountain isn't cold, it is July."

28 January 2016

On our journey we went to Greece and Italy, my Belle Mere, Alice, French Husband and I travelled together for two weeks. We had a wonderful time, the weather was oddly flawless. My Belle Mere, her name is Monique, but I have always called her Bonne Maman, like the French confiture; Well actually her grandchildren called her Bonne Maman, so I did too, and so do our children. Anyway Bonne Maman rarely sat, and when she did I took this photo. She never said no to anything, was gamed for everything, no matter how many stairs or how far away. When we returned to the ship, she would go to the jacuzzi, the sauna and then dance until midnight. Some would say they hope to be like that at her age 86, but I say I hope to be like that now.

Alice was twenty thousand steps ahead of us, of course she is young, so it stands to reason. But considering she was hanging out with us three older folk I was impressed she didn't ditch us.

Alice leaves for her homeland in Australia in February we are going to feel the empty nest feeling again.

When we got off the ship in Volos (Greece) we took a taxi to Meteora. Talk about stunning landscape. Photo-opt central! This is the sort of place you want to drive around, pray for fog or clouds to give depth to your photos, and have the different play of light throughout the day.

If only I had my camera... but I gotta say the cell phone did a good job considering.

"The Meteora, literally "middle of the sky", "suspended in the air" or "in the heavens above" is one of the largest and most important complexes of Greek Orthodox monasteries, second only to Mount Athos. The six monasteries are built on natural sandstone rock pillars, in central Greece.

Caves in the vicinity of Meteora were inhabited continuously between 50,000 and 5,000 years ago. The oldest known example of a man-made structure, a stone wall that blocked two-thirds of the entrance to the Theopetra Cave, was constructed 23,000 years ago, probably as a barrier against cold winds.

In the 9th century AD, ascetic group of hermit monks moved up to the ancient pinnacles; they were the first people to inhabit Meteora since the Neolithic Era. They lived in hollows and fissures in the rock towers, some as high as 1800 feet above the plain. This great height, combined with the sheerness of the cliff walls, kept away all but the most determined visitors. The hermits led a life of solitude..." Via Wiki

Nowadays there are stairs going to the monasteries, so you do not need to be roped up as before.

Up we went. Bonne Maman in heels with her clutch, "Are you okay?" I asked knowing the answer, but asked anyway, "Oui, oui, oui, just an everyday promenade." She likes to say things in three: "No no no", "Oui oui oui" and her favorite is a tsk sound, "tsk tsk tsk." I wonder if she wrote a blog what she would say about me. THANK GOD she doesn't.

We visited three of the monasteries.

We were told that in the summer the lines are miles long.

Though in January we walked right in. I do not think I would do it in the summer. Crowds are not my thing, nor the heat.

A few stairs here and there and everywhere.

Everywhere.

Rather stairs then being roped up.

"I am the official photographer," I teased, "Strike a poise."

Since French Husband's mom lives on the other side of France we only see here a few times a year. This trip was special for Yann as he was able to be with her, for two weeks without work or daily life activities. I figured the least I can do was let them have their moment, and take photos to show you what a tough little cookie she is.

One of my favorite things to do is tell people my Belle Mere's age... Their expression goes into shock, and then they look her up and down, those perfect legs, her wrinkle free face (not fair!) and then they say, "Incredible." I do not say my age, but I have thought to say I am 95 just to have an incredible reaction too.

This is the loading dock where the monks use to haul up and down monks and supplies.

Stairs have my vote, and your vote too if you saw the drop.

On the left side of the photo you can see the rope bag that the monks still use to bring up supplies.

23 December 2015

On the feast of Saint Barbe (December 4th), the first Provençal Christmas tradition takes place in France. Growing wheat. I bought my grains the day before at the bakery. I remember that

Annie's wheat was always superior to mine. "Experience," she use to say, plus I think Saint Barbe is on her side.

How to grow Christmas Wheat at Christmas:

First, find a plate, or a waterproof container or box or something nice, to place your wheat grains on to grow.

Step two, layer cotton on the bottom of the chosen object, if you do not have cotton, a paper napkin will do.

Third step, moisten the cotton with a dab of water, but not gushing soak.

I have heard you can use moss on which to scatter your grains, which seems tres chic, though I have traditionally used cotton. Every other day you will need to moisten the cotton holding the grains, until you see that they're full-grown.

Also, the grains need to be by indirect sunlight.

The outcome of the wheat is said to be a symbol of the harvest to come. If the grains germinate and sprout beautifully, it is said that the harvest will be bountiful. If the grains shoots are immature and yellow, poor harvests are predicted. If nothing happens...well maybe you watered it too much, or didn't have it close to a source of light, or your grains were old, nevertheless, it isn't a good sign as far as symbols are concerned.

It is also said that the shoots growth predict your good fortune for the year to come.

Other grains can be used, wheat is the traditional choice in France.

The sprouting grains of wheat are used to decorate the table at Christmas, and or the creche (nativity scene.) Plates of growing wheat are in shops, homes, schools... Everyone in France has a mini wheat field growing, even at the post office.

After Epiphany Annie use to take hers and plants it in a nearby wheat field, she said that is also, part of the tradition.

French Husband came in while I was taking photos of the wheat grain, he asked what I was doing...

After I told him he said, "You forgot the most important part!"

"What did I forget Smarty Pants?"

"The last step. You must kiss over the wheat for good fortune."

I shook my head no, "Annie never mentioned that."

"Its true."

I am not sure how true this part of the tradition is, but it sure makes the process more fun. And I never say no to kissing.

14 December 2015

The box of assorted chocolates circled around the room. When the hostess offered her guests the box of chocolates the guests would take the chocolate closest to them without hesitation, nor reflection, as if the chocolates were all the same.

As the guests carried on with their conversation, I had one ear listening, and one eye on the hostess as she continued to offer the chocolates. I leaned to French Husband without looking obvious and asked him if it was my imagination or was it rude to select a chocolate you wanted verses taken the one closest to you when offered?

He smiled that smile that said, "We shouldn't be talking about this now." Yet he offered a quick response. Without drawing any attention to our conversation he nonchalantly said under his breath, "In France when offered a dessert, or chocolate, a glass of champagne or whatever, it is polite to accept the one closest to you."

"Really?"

"Really."

"But what if I don't want the one closest to me, but instead want the one in the middle? The white chocolate one for example?"

He gave me that look again-- and then because he is ever so polite, even to the point of being rude to me, he said nothing.

When the hostess offered me the box of chocolates the one closest to me was a praline. I do not like pralines. So I said no thank you and felt my mouth watering for the white chocolate one instead.

My eyes must of spoken differently than my words, because the hostess said, "You don't like chocolates? Are you sure you do not have room for a little bite?"

I tried to smile politely but as soon as I looked over at French Husband a naughty child grin came upon my face. With that I threw the French etiquette lesson over my shoulder. Then brought my hand to my lips while pinching my pointer finger and thumb together and said, "Maybe I have room for a white chocolate."

As I popped the white chocolate into my mouth, sheephishly savoring the taste I looked around the room and thought who really cares?

French Husband glanced at me, and in that glance I saw more than than the white chocolate in the middle of the box. I saw that he cared.

And in a flash I learned that this new country I called home had customs, traditions, culture, attitudes.... very different from my own place of birth and that if I wanted to fit in I had to gain respect for those ways before I could adapt them.

I swallowed hard my tasty faux pas. It was the first of many small lessons that taught me that the French way is to act instead of reacting.

06 October 2015

Anyone who has read my blog for a short while knows I am in love with Cassis, from the first moment until this day. I claimed it my New California, well actually Westport, California. Not that the two look anything alike, but that is how I see it: Love = love.

Twenty five years ago we moved from Paris to Marseille. Rebecca C. who reads my blog asked me the other day, "When you moved to the south of France why didn't you live in Cassis?" Good question, a simple practical reason... Money.

So anyway the other day I was talking happily about my day in Cassis to Yann, Vlad and WR-PL-BB (aka: Denise) and Mr. French Husband got all French in my face, and thought after twenty five years he might as well tell me that I have not been saying Cassis the right way.

13 August 2015

Our old house, as we called the house we use to live in, considering the one we live in now is older. Summer lunch outside on a makeshift garden table, finished plates of pasta, a milk carton and a bottle or rose.

French Husband wore his weekend uniform, a white Haynes tee-shirt and 501 jeans, since most of his other clothes involved button down, a tie and suit.

The curly blonde baby is Sacha, his eyes tell me it was not a good day. He had health issues when he was born and didn't sleep through the night until he was five. Even now twenty years later I know that look in the photo.

Chelsea, happy go lucky girl, loved those suspender shorts, dreamed of long hair and was such a helpful wonder that often I forgot that she was thirty two years younger than me.

Old photos, one look takes me back, one link to another, freeze frame in time.

We drove to Valensole weaving along the backroads. Seven in a van, my cousin Judy drove like a race car driver I loved it, I did not fall asleep.

The excitement was exhilarating. The scenery though never disappointing rarely keeps me awake. So I laughed with those in the van, felt giddy as a twinkle of a star and waited anxiously at their reaction to the lavender fields of Valensole.

From the car window, a blur of color.

Photo via Madison and her selfie stick, which was a kick in the pants.

So funny, so fun... those two little cousins are sweeties!

Photo via Madison

of my Aunt Eva May, my mother's sister in law.

Must - dash in the lavender fields.

The two grand daughters posed my Aunt in a hundred different photos. Such admiration they have, such evident love, beautiful to witness. They giggled as they would say, "Grandma bend down, smell the lavender." Click. "Grandma, raise your hands to the sky." Click. " Grandma, grandma, hold the lavender to your nose like a moustache." Click.

06 June 2015

When you are an American living in France, there are a few things that you can be sure of:

1) You will compare your adopted country to your home country.

2) You will miss home, and eventually miss the other when you are home.

3) You will say French words when speaking English, and English words while speaking French.

4) Family and friends will come to visit, crowning you the best tour guide.

5) You will find yourself defending the misunderstood ways of the French.

6) You will say Oh la la in a perfect French accent, and be able puff your lips, and blow air out in the most convincing way.

7) You will know how to get the French waiter's attention to pay the bill.

8) Instead of hugging your friends you will kiss them.

9) You will be able to spot another American ten miles away.

10) When in the States you will ask the waiter, “Can I have water with no ice, please?”

11) You will know the secret of how the French stay thin and how to wear a scarf.

12) Endives, Radishes, Leeks... will be your new best friend.

13) The paper cup will feel shameful.

14) You will understand the art and appreciation of flirting.

15) Good butter, wonderfully inexpensive wines (that would cost a fortune in the States,) and baguettes will never, never compare anywhere eles in the world.

16) Perfume.

17) Being chic for no reason is reason enough: Why not wear high heels today?

18) That dogs are not dogs but human beings.

19) You will smile knowing that a facade is a facade, and that what is real is behind the wall.

And I am not talking about shutters and house interiors.

20) When you have visited France, or have lived here for nearly thirty years, or are a native, you will be asked, "What is it about the French?" And if you are like me you will smile knowing deep down inside... la vie est belle and with that you know what they know and cannot explain it.

19 February 2015

My first memory I have of a seashell is when my Grandmother Amaro came back from a trip to the Azores. I must have been about five years old. She unsnapped her suitcase and unpacked an enormous seashell, she held it up to my ear and asked, "Do you hear the ocean?" Surprised, I nodded yes. Then she held the seashell to my nose, "Breath in." When I did I made a face. My Grandmother smiled, "That smell is of home, far far away." It was a strange thing to say considering it did not smell very good. But later I would understand that it wasn't a question whether it smelled nice or not, it was to say that the ocean, the island where she was from, in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, was far away from the place she called home in the Sacramento Valley.

You are probably wonder how this turns into "Fork and Knife"?

Secondly, my daughter's prenom-first name is, "CHELSEA."

My Father-in-law, Belle-Pere, a man of very few words, let alone English ones, said to me at her birth: "Chelsea is, "Sea-Shell, backwards, non?"

I hadn't thought of that and was amazed he did.

The French pronounce the sound "CH" as "SH", my daughter's name therefore in pronounced, "Shel-sea."

When I was pregnant I mentioned to French Husband that I liked the name; "Chelsea." French Husband was perplexed, mouthed the name without any sound coming out, then despite himself he said, "Chilli, you said Chilli!" That should have been my first clue that names were not pronounced the same, and picking a name that sounded the same in both countries should be foremost of importance.

Unfortunately, I just thought he was making it up, surely he was teasing about the name? It took him weeks to get it right.

French Husband calls our niece Maci, "Messy". He calls our other niece, Molly, "Moully". My Dad use to say, "You can call me what you want as long as you don't call me late for dinner."

I won't say how French Husband says, "Fork". Instead I will let you imagine it. And I won't even begin how I slaughter the French language. But I will say that I cannot pronounce the French name "Quentin"... without making it sound like a very bad F word. French Husband swears I do it on purpose. Which I have to remind him, "...And how do you say fork?"

But I will add this to humor you: Fork and knife said by French Husband sounds like, "F_ck an Nice".

In English we pronounce Yann as Yawn. French pronounce Corey as Core-Ay. Names like Anna sound the same as does Laura, Camy, Pierre or Mark, well more or less the same, but not nearly as butchered as Chelsea. Chelsea would be called,"Jealsee" by her teachers from the first day of school to the end of University.

I will always be Core-Ay, which I cannot stand.

Luckily, in France everyone gets by with Monsieur or Madame, names are something reserved for a future relationship. Though, when you have a prenom that isn't French, you are left as a Madame Américaine forever.

11 February 2015

Can you see the red dot? That red dot is it a worm, or French Husband on a rope?

French Husband and I went hiking in the calanques, along the rugged coastline between Cassis and Marseille. Our starting point was a charming obscure little port called, Morgiou. French Husband told me to bring a book commenting, "I'm going to rope down the Cap de Morgiou, while I do that you can read in the sun." Thoughtful isn't he? The day was cold with a strong Mistral blowing. "...Sit in the sun," he said, "... and read a book." While he ropes down a sheer face cliff? Every voice inside of me was screaming, "Don't go!" However would I be calm enough to read a book while Crazy Frenchman was hanging off a cliff?

Foregoing the book, I grabbed my camera and went.

French Husband's back pack was full of ropes, hooks, clips, things-I-don't-know-the-names- of, plus water, some granola bars, a helmet and other paraphernalia of fear-fun. His backpack was bigger and heavier than me. I carried myself and my camera.

(If you click on the photo you will see French Husband hanging midway, on a rope. Doesn't that look easy breezy?)

Forty-seven minutes worth of breathing hard and worried that I was going to slip and fall, or be blown off the cliff. French Husband casually said, "Okay, this is where I am going to drop down, if you want Corey you can hike over there and watch me." Looking around I did not see any rock to sit behind, nor any cozy place to keep warm. "Oh. Okay." I said with a smile, but underneath I had to encourage myself, "You won't fall, your strong, you're not a blond-haired-butter-ball, you can do it, you're a big girl, the wind isn't going to blow you off the cliff."

Carefully, with my head down bearing the Mistral wind, I finally arrived on the other side. I saw for the first time the reality of what French Husband does; He was HANGING on a rope! My mouth hit the stony ground and I felt like I was going to vomit. Then the second truth came to mind, "SACHA does this too!" I didn't want to look, but then again, I dared not too. I was terrified.

It reminded me of my Father... every Friday night after he had milked the cows, we would hop in his pick-up truck and go to Cycle-Land, a flat track, motorcycle, speedway, where he would race. Sitting in the bleachers I would feel the same feeling that I had on those cliffs. Terrific fear. The sense that my stomach was in my mouth.

I don't dig the feeling of fear. Not at all. I do not see scary movies 'cause I do not dig the feeling of fear.

Half way down the cliff the wind caught French Husband, he started to swing back and forth, twirling around and around. Who could even breath while that was going on? There were other hikers behind me, they stopped, pointed and commented on how crazy that person was... "Is he out of his mind to be rock climbing in this wind." I agreed with them, and didn't mention that the crazy person was my husband. "Is he mad? Is he trying to kill himself? What an idiot!"

Oh Lucky me. Such comfort in the words coming from strangers, and the mistral blowing, and my vomit inching closer to the outside world.

Standing there watching French Husband I forgot that I was cold, I forgot that I was very close to the edge, I nearly forgot to take a picture of him hanging there, but I did not forget how mad I was the entire time. Most of the time I wished I could clobber that Freak I was married to, I prayed in short choppy sentences, "Damn, oh God, oh please. Shit. Oh God why? Oh Lord." As he hung off the cliff, being twirled around by the Mistral, he waved to me.

He was mad,

as in crazy mad,

not angry mad.

Yes, flat out, crazy mad.

But I was madder,

and mattered.

He waved.

And that somehow made me want to jump into that wave of that beautiful man.

I prayed: "I will never complain about any form of housework again, or my weight, or anything unimportant, if he makes it back alive God. Then I thought, "Great! Now, I am bartering with God over the life of my husband and housework."

Slowly he made his way back to the top, he was smiling and his enthusiastic energy was evident, as I ran back to his side of the cliff. The first thing he said was,

"Did you take a picture of me?"

I stared at that mass of fearless wonder.

"Yann!, You looked like a worm on a hook! Ready for some starving fish to jump out of the sea and swallow you up in one delicious gulp!" He didn't hear my fear, nor see my anger, nor my desire to kill him so that he could never die by doing that crazy madness again. Instead he shook his pretty head, and laughed with utter joy, grabbed me and kissed me deeper than the sea that was below us.

My Frenchman, and no complaining about housework again. But then again, God knows me.

°Thirty years living in France because I married a Frenchman that I met while dancing in San Francisco° Two children, now in their mid-twenties, amour et joie° I have the "Brocante Bug" which means antiquing is my cure, France can do me no wrong when it comes to treatment ° I am from a small rural town in Northern California ° Co-founder of the French Muse Experience, and more so share our renovation projects ° Writes whatever strikes a cord, and has taken photos for this blog every day for the last thirteen years° Merci for following me°